by Bill Syken
Vaughn. If Melody’s uncle worked at the Winking Oyster, that would explain how she ended up there. But who was Alice and how did she fit in?
And then it clicks. I search the New Hampshire Class A semifinalist soccer rosters, the ones I had examined days ago looking for Melody. There I find her, on the roster of Bonner High: Alice Penders. With a little Googling, I find a brief story on their semifinal win, mentioning that Alice scored the winning goal.
She wasn’t lying about her athletic exploits. She was lying about her name.
I shut down the computer and throw on jeans and a T-shirt and I drive to Melody’s—Alice’s—home.
* * *
When I pull up the first thing I notice is that the F-150 is gone. I knock on the door. No answer. I pull open the screen door and turn the handle. The place is unlocked. I step in and call out “Melody?” but hear only a slow drip from the kitchen.
In the kitchen the cabinets are open, and nearly empty. I see a quarter-full box of pasta, a jar of peanut butter with a few scrapings left, and an open bag of marshmallows with ants crawling through. The refrigerator is equally barren, with just a jar of Hellman’s and a drained bottle of Heinz ketchup in the door.
I climb upstairs and find two uncarpeted bedrooms, furnished only with mattresses on the floor, each stained with its own brown watermarks. One room smells overwhelmingly of smoke. The other has, in the corner, a white candle mounted in the top of a bottle of champagne, with wax drippings running down the side. I pick up the bottle and examine it by the window. The champagne is Cristal, and I can see my phone number on the label, partially obscured by the drippings. I open the closet of that room—just a dozen wire hangers, all pushed off to one side.
Melody has become Alice, and she has disappeared.
* * *
I drive back home with my radio off. I am in no mood to listen to anything. Back at the Jefferson, I breathe deeply and dial her number. Maybe if I tell Melody I know everything, that will put the fear of capture into her, and she will do the right thing.
Beep-beep-beep. This number is no longer in service.
I hold the phone straight out with my right arm, and I take a step-step-step across my living room and drop it, ready to boot the phone up into the ceiling in frustration. But I stop myself in mid-kick, letting the phone fall harmlessly onto the beige carpet.
When I apply the brakes, I feel pain rifle up the back of my right leg. The hamstring again. The hamstring was fine all through camp, but now it is back again, reminding me it is still my master. Tend to me, or suffer.
I slowly unbutton my jeans and slide them off, preparing to stretch yet again. Unbelievable. I will spend much of my summer on my back, nursing this stupid tendon.
It is a disheartening prospect. Before I begin, I decide to watch the SportsCenter highlight clip of my hit on Dez Wheeler, which I haven’t looked at in a few weeks. I grab the remote and with a couple of boings I am in my DVR’s memory banks.
But the clip is gone. I find no SportsCenter in the archives at all. I turn the DVR on and off again and begin the search anew, but it doesn’t help. My greatest moment as a competitive athlete is gone.
And I had that clip protected every way I could to make sure the machine didn’t erase it by accident. That digital file is my greatest treasure.
It couldn’t have just vanished.
Right then I knew who broke into my apartment, because I have told only one person about the clip. Only one person was ever invited to sit with me and worship at the shrine. She didn’t worship, actually, she entered the church and then scoffed. It didn’t matter than I replayed the clip again and again for Jessica, attempting to convince her of the moment’s perfection, pointing out my aggressive approach on the tackle, the way my hit sent Wheeler flying in one direction and the ball in the other. I explained to her how you couldn’t cast a better villain than Dez Wheeler, a showboating egomaniac.…
“‘Egomaniac’?” Jessica cackled. “Can you really call someone else an egomaniac after you’ve just shown me this clip for the eleventh time? You bow down to a false idol, Nick, and it’s called You Winning.”
I think back to the day after the shooting. Jessica had invited me over, and I told her I wanted to be alone. And then Melody invited me on a champagne picnic and I went. Jessica must have seen the photo of Melody and me in the news and figured that she had been lied to. So she came in here and trashed my treasure. Here’s to my health indeed.
For some reason, I laugh.
CHAPTER 25
AT LEAST FREDDIE is happy. So I learn when he finally calls in the late afternoon.
“They’ve given me my own office!” he exclaims. “We’re on the twenty-third floor. I can see the statue of William Penn from my window. And I discovered where they keep all the pastries.”
That is nice.
“Tell me, Freddie, after you finished sucking the filling out of the jelly doughnuts, did you find out anything about the case?”
“Now that you mention it, I have,” Freddie says. “I had a secretary print me out my own copy of the case file. First off, your little detail. The gun used in the shooting was a .308, not a .270.” So Uncle Frank and his rifle are in the clear. Which is good. “Also, if you’re interested, I saw reports from Alabama police about the alibis of Kaylee Wise and her brothers and cousins. They were all accounted for on the night of the shooting.”
That crossed more dark-horse candidates off the list. Although the Wises could know people in Philadelphia who could have acted by proxy, especially with the prospect of Samuel’s money in front of them.
“Do you have any idea what Jai’s defense strategy is going to be?”
“From what they tell me, until any better ideas come along, their plan is to go after Rizotti. They’re going to try to prove that the rifle isn’t Jai’s and make it seem like Rizotti planted the evidence. You aren’t the only one he’s told about his admiration for Mark Fuhrman, apparently. They’ll try to do to Rizotti what O.J.’s guys did to him.”
The plan sounds perfectly ugly. I have known about it for ten seconds, and already I am sick from it. Not that I wouldn’t put the worst of human impulses past Rizotti, but it doesn’t track as the answer. It seems like the greater motive for planting the rifle in Jai’s car belongs to the actual shooter.
I ask Freddie, “Do his lawyers have some list of people who might have a grudge against Jai?”
As I utter the words, I realize that compiling a list of Jai’s enemies might take weeks, if not months or years. His personality is such that he can outrage hundreds of people casually, and without knowing it.
For instance, ever since Jai was taken in by police, the cable channel that aired his reality dating show Give It Up for JC has been running its eleven hour-long episodes on a never-ending loop. I watched some of it, and the show is even more tasteless than I might have guessed. The topper was the elimination sequence at the end of each episode. The remaining “virgins” competing for Jai’s affection—and I agree with Freddie’s analysis that the women seemed far more experienced than they claimed to be—all gather in Jai’s bedroom, where, clad in bikinis, they await their fate. Jai then selects one of the girls and leads her out onto the balcony. He tells her how beautiful and special she is, and that one day she is going to make some man—perhaps many men—very happy. But not Jai. Not tonight, anyway.
Then Jai ushers the woman to the far side of the balcony and sends her down the waterslide. With a whoosh and a splash, her TV moment comes to a close.
I wonder if a woman could get so upset over such humiliation that she would seek revenge. Or maybe an angry dad would—that feels more right. But still, murdering Samuel for the sole purpose of setting up Jai is too extreme to make sense. If you’re going to kill someone, why not just go directly after Jai?
And these women knew what they were getting into when they agreed to be on Jai’s reality show. Although it’s true that most people, when they enter a contest, only imagine themselves
winning; the pain of losing can be a complete surprise.
My phone buzzes. I have a new message—from Jessica’s husband Dan, of all people. Even though I never answered his first e-mail from days ago.
Nick, I’ve been reading about what happened, and I hope you are doing OK. I am still abroad but I will be home soon. I understand this might not be a great time to have dinner, but if there is anything Jessica and I can do to help you in this difficult time, please let us know. Dan.
There is a guy who has a finger on the pulse of his marriage.
I walk to the window, which offers a view of Center City’s office buildings at dusk, and try with my fingernail to pick at the residue of HERE’S TO YOUR HEALTH. The words, spelled in syrup, have congealed to the point of intransigence. They seem to have grafted completely onto the glass.
Maybe I should just find someplace else to live. Maybe it is time for me to move out of the Jefferson, superstition be damned.
As soon as I think of moving out, I know I should do it. I will wait until after I have beaten back Woodward and my next season is secure. But then I will go. I imagine seeing apartments with a real estate agent, buying my own furniture, and I know that I should have done all that a long time ago.
Speaking of things I should have done a long time ago: I need to pay Jessica a visit.
CHAPTER 26
THE STEAGALLS LIVE in Society Hill, a section of the city well-preserved from the days when Philadelphia was the center of a young and growing country. Many of the brick-facade homes date to the 1800s or even the 1700s and feature signs in their windows boasting of their historical lineage, noting that the original owner was a sailmaker or a merchant or a signer of the Constitution or the engraver of the first U.S. currency.
Jessica’s place, which stands on a corner, is a three-story town house with a checkerboard pattern of red and black bricks. It is wider than the other homes on its block, occupying a double plot. Near the curb stands an iron post once used to hitch horses, and rooted by the front steps is a metal wedge for scraping mud from the soles of your boots.
On my first visit here, years ago, Jessica told me that her home had its own storied past. During the Revolutionary era, she said, it was the residence of an early feminist named Joyce DeWitt, who competed with Betsy Ross to create the first American flag. DeWitt’s design, a field of bright green surrounded by pink fringe, was rejected by the founding fathers in favor of Ross’s stars and stripes. DeWitt was so angry that in her pique she attempted to form an opposition government to carry her flag. In her government, only women would be allowed to vote, hold political office, own property, captain ships, and consume alcohol. DeWitt called her political movement Green Day, Jessica said, which is where the rock band took its name from.
A quick Google search that night at home confirmed what I suspected, which was that Joyce DeWitt is actually the name of an actress on the ’70s sitcom Three’s Company, which now reruns daily on basic cable. In the show, DeWitt’s character was the dark-haired “smart one,” and her most rebellious act was to trick Mr. Roper into letting two girls have a male roommate, by telling the landlord that he was gay. Green Day’s name is in fact a reference to a fondness for marijuana.
It is nearly 10:00 P.M., and Jessica’s house is glowing with electricity, a sure sign that her husband Dan hasn’t returned from his trip. Jessica likes to keep every light in her house turned on while she is awake. Her husband, as befits an ambitious Fed official moving in a socially aware universe, favors a more environmentally conscious policy toward energy use; when he is home he dims as many lights as he can. Then he goes away and Jessica returns to draining the power grid.
I ring the bell.
“Who is it?” I hear Jessica call from what sounds like a couple of rooms away.
“Norman Fell,” I answer, as lightheartedly as I can while shouting through a door. “I’ve come about the rent.”
I hear footsteps approaching, and Jessica opens the door with a dramatic swing. Which is in itself a surprise, because when I visit she usually pulls the door back slowly, shielding herself behind it, lest we be seen together by her neighbors for even a second. She imagines someone might be taking pictures.
But tonight she stands unabashed in the doorway, wearing a loose white tank top that shows off the lean musculature of her arms, and billowy paisley pants. Her black hair is pinned up in a way that accentuates the sleekness of her features—the dark narrow eyes, the high cheeks, the thin aquiline nose that she swore to me had never been worked on.
“Now why in the world would Norman Fell see Joyce DeWitt about the rent?” she sneers. “Mr. Roper would see Janet about the rent. I would call that a subtle difference, but it isn’t really that subtle, is it?”
The banter seems light enough in its content, but the energy behind the words is decidedly sharper.
“You’re right,” I say. “This really isn’t about the rent.”
She narrows her eyes.
“Did you come here to let me have it?” she says. “This should be soooo good.” She turns her back to me and walks through an arched foyer into the high-ceilinged living room. I follow her, closing the door behind me. She settles into the corner of a red-and-white-patterned sofa with high armrests. The sofa is flanked by two purple slip-covered chairs. On a wooden end table sits a glass of port, a crystal dish filled with walnuts, and a copy of InStyle magazine.
Also on the table is a framed photo of her husband, Dan. In the photo he is wearing a suit and sitting at a table, speaking into a microphone. Dan has a slight build, and is pale and completely bald. “Now I know what Moby would have looked like if he had gone to business school,” I joked when I first saw the photo a few years ago. “He is testifying before Congress in that picture,” Jessica responded. “Believe it or not, some people might find that more impressive than kicking a football.” She could cheat on Dan, but she would not let me run him down in her presence.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Jessica says, though she is deeply nestled into her seat and making no gesture toward moving. “Maybe some white wine? I have a half-open bottle of barely adequate Sancerre in the fridge. You would probably like it. Though it seems that lately you prefer champagne. Or is that only in the afternoon?”
So she did see the photo of Melody and me.
“I should have come by sooner,” I say.
“It’s fine.” Jessica yawns. “I know how busy you’ve been.”
Her line echoes a running joke between us, born from our indolent afternoons together. When one of us proposes a future rendezvous, and the other seems to wonder if that time would work, the other quickly inserts, “I know how busy you are.” The joke being that, especially out of football season, neither of us is ever all that busy.
“It seems like you found the time to buy yourself some new clothes,” Jessica continues dryly. I am wearing a thin light blue sweater, part of my Boyd’s haul. “I suppose it does force you to upgrade your wardrobe, when you know the paparazzi are going to be taking your picture.”
I feel like she is baiting me to bring up what she did to my apartment. She wants me to raise the heat.
I cross my legs, spread my arms and lean back in my chair. “Funny how long we lasted, isn’t it,” I say. “Three years. It’s not something I ever expected.”
“I certainly didn’t,” Jessica says. “Not with the way you talked.”
“Talked—about what?” We have never discussed our future, beyond the next date, as far as I can recall.
“You are always going on about how punters don’t have any job security,” she says. “You make it sound like you could get cut after one bad game.”
“I could,” I said. Punters and kickers are the easiest players to replace. Take one out, plug in another, and you’re ready to go. It’s not like we have an entire offense to learn.
“That first summer of our little dalliance, your team signed another punter to compete with you in training camp, that guy, Mallard Fillmore.
…”
“Phil Mallamore,” I correct.
“I know what his name was,” she says. “But we called him Mallard Fillmore. You made it sound like he was going to take your job. But he didn’t. And then last year it was the Australian … What was his name?”
“Liam Menzies.”
“Right. You went on for weeks about how appalling it would be to lose out to a man named Liam.”
“That was a joke. For your amusement.”
“And I’m sure there’s some other punter this year that you’re all worried about. What’s the name this time?”
“Woodward Tolley,” I say. “He’s the best one yet, actually.”
“I’m sure. And I bet you’ve been obsessing about how the Sentinels will cut you any second now. Am I right?”
“It happens,” I say. “All the time.”
“But you made it sound like it would happen to you. We’ve had good-bye sex more times than I can count, but you’ve never had the courtesy to actually leave.”
This conversation isn’t getting us anywhere, but at least she is speaking with directness and honesty.
“I want to ask you one question,” I say. “And I want you to promise me you’ll give an actual answer. No zingers, no deflections, no crazy stories.”
The wineglass in one hand, she reaches back with the other and tugs down on her shirt, which has been slipping revealingly in front. “Fine,” she says, shoulders square. “One question. Go ahead.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Ready?”
“Out with it,” she says with a taunting swirl of her index finger.
“How come you and Dan haven’t had any kids?”
She starts a little and her throat tenses, as if she is choking, and then puts down her wine. Then she stands up and walks out of the room. I hear a door closing, and then no more movement. Ten seconds pass. Twenty seconds. A minute.
She is not coming back. I wonder about leaving, but then decide to wait her out.
